


to wake, to sleep

by belovedmuerto



Series: In Your Head [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 2nd POV, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Nightmares, Sleep, bucky pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6726997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You sit down on the edge of his bed and wait for him to wake up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to wake, to sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another one of these. I guess it's a thing now.

You sit down on the edge of his bed and wait for him to wake up. 

It’s his turn, tonight. Nightmares. Bad dreams. Memories. 

You know better than to touch him, to try to wake him from it, because he comes up swinging the same way you come up with a gun or a knife or just the weapon that is your left arm. It is the middle of the night and his whimpers woke you but you do not want to get punched. You are enough of a person these days to recognize a want: you want not to be punched, like you want to be close to him always, like you want the quiet his presence brings.

You know that your presence at the end of his bed next to his shifting feet will be enough to wake him, eventually. 

And he wakes up with a gasp, a sob.

You know what he dreams about, because he’s told you. He dreams about you falling, always falling. He knows what you dream about, because you have told him, in the darkness of the night when you lay side by side and murmur secrets to each other until you both drift back to sleep, somewhere near dawn. You dream about killing him. Over and over, in a million different ways you kill him when you sleep.

“I’m here,” you murmur, and he turns on his side and looks at you. He doesn’t say anything, and you don’t say anymore. His eyes are wet, and he turns his face into his pillow, shoulders still shaking. 

You reach out and put your hand on him, probably his foot or his ankle, through the blankets. He makes a noise into the pillow, and it makes an ache bloom in your chest.

Part of you wants to leave, to go back to the darkness of your own room, your lonely bed, but you know you won’t. You want him to feel better, feel comforted more than you want to hide from the aching in your chest, from the way you want to cling to him and never ever let go.

You stand, he jerks around to stare at you, eyes wide and wet. 

“Wait--” he starts to say, but you’re already walking around the bed, to get in behind him.

“You’re staying?” he asks, when you’ve settled next to him, covers pulled up. The answer is pretty obvious, so you don’t bother giving it voice. He sighs and turns his face back into his pillow, and you make yourself comfortable on your side and wait for sleep to come for you.

He turns over to face you, and you briefly wonder why you don’t just share a bed every night. It would make things easier. You always sleep better when he’s near; it’s understandable, you can’t even manage to have bad thoughts when he’s close, so you definitely don’t dream about killing him when you sleep beside him. You wonder if it’s the same for him.

He’s reaching for you, but he stops before he touches you, his hand hovering over your face. “Can I?” 

You nod. Always. You can always touch me, you think. You still haven’t figured out how to tell him that.

His hand comes to rest on your neck, gentle and soft. It should be trapped, choking, danger but it’s the opposite. It’s cherished. Safety. Warmth, closeness. It’s a sigh from him that ghosts over your lips, and the way you melt into the bed with his hand anchoring you to reality, to him. You lift your own hand, the flesh one, and wrap your fingers around his wrist. You can feel his pulse in your fingertips, slow and steady and perfect, and you fall asleep between one beat and the next.

You wake up the same way, between one beat of his heart and the next, your fingers still wrapped around his wrist. The light tells you it’s late, far later than you would normally sleep. But he’s still there. He’s never still there when you wake; he’s always up before you.

He’s watching you, and his eyes are soft, his face is soft with something you are hesitant to name but it settles deep in your chest, balm over the ache that’s always there. You are much closer together than you were when you fell asleep, foreheads touching, legs entwined. It is far, far more contact than either one of you usually allows, but neither of you is moving.

You feel safe. Safe and warm, and cherished. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. He does the same, and he is breathing your air, you are breathing his air as it whooshes across your lips. 

(You both have terrible morning breath, but that’s okay.)

“You’re still here,” you say, stating the obvious.

His soft smile feels like hope and peace, and he moves a little, his nose along your nose, his breath across your lips. 

“You always run in the morning,” you add, disbelief coloring your voice with a frown that doesn’t quite reach your lips.

He’s still smiling. “I didn’t want to wake you.”


End file.
